


Between Motion and Act

by tokyonightskies



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Being adorable, Blond Warrior Babes, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control, Minor Thor TDW spoilers, Pre-Romance, Steve Feels, Thor Feels, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-Falls the Shadow. <br/>Or as Steve recovers from his injuries, Thor tries to recover from guilt. (Mind Controlled!Thor; Hurt/Comfort;Pre-Relationship)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Motion and Act

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and thus, dedicated to Shadowkai45 @ tumblr.   
> {For the lovely people on the Thundershield tag}
> 
> This takes place after Thor: the Dark World, so it has minor spoilers, and contains references to the comics-verse (Mesmero).

 

His memory is  _frayed at the edges_ , furling upwards in a charcoal black like a piece of burned parchment- a pattern of red circles curling into each other blinking in front of his eyes followed shortly by a murky haze unfolding in Monday morning gray wisps and then, this inescapable, invasive barrenness of his mind. Some undeniable part of himself cutting itself off from the grasp of his hand, a resounding ‘thud’ of a heavy, cosmic object falling from a considerable distance and colliding mercilessly with the asphalt below and his hand in emptiness curling into an angry, inconsolable fist. No other sensations remained in the cavern of his chest aside from his mighty heart, beating. Someone _ignited_  a strip of magnesium inside the tubes of his veins and this bright, volatile flare in all its vigor pushed him onwards. In his scarce recollections of the event, there were hushed whispers echoing maliciously in between his ears to chase the star, this vivid opal star.

 

Thor jolts to consciousness, eyes open-wide and nostrils flared in a desperate attempt to inhale as much oxygen as possible, and once he’s regained awareness of his surroundings, the bland walls, the sterile stench of ethanol and hospital dinners, the god-awful green chair he’s sitting in and the bed with the iron framework he’s sitting next to, he somewhat eases his posture. His shoulders slouch, his chest deflates and the vice grip on the book, Kipling- one of Steve’s favorites, turns into simply pressing the novel to his lap with the roughened palm of his hand.

 

"You okay, big guy?" Clint asks from where he stands, leaning against the doorframe of hospital room 437 of the Mount Sinai medical center.

 

He gathers his wit, looking from the figure under the white sheets to the blond standing in the open doorway, and responds hesitantly, in a throaty voice, “I am well,  _considering_ …” Here, Thor falters for a moment, unsure of the correct phrasing, “Considering the circumstances.”

 

Although the sound, a soft scrunch as Clint swallows reflexively with a dry mouth, doesn’t quite reach the other side of the room, overshadowed by the steady beeping of the heart monitor, it serves as a striking example of how heavy the silence weighs on their minds.

 

"I call bull, Thor." He finally replies, moving from the spot he stood rooted, towards Steve’s sleeping form and the guilt-wrecked god sitting dutifully at his side. "I’ve been through the entire mind control.. You.." He hesitates, his fingers ghosting over the wrinkles in the sheets, "You can be honest, to me. At least." His eyes scan Thor’s features, solemn and unusually pale.

 

His palm pats the hardcover of Kipling’s book, uncontrollably almost, “The whispers…” He grinds out between clenched teeth, “Did you experience them as well, friend?”

 

"Like a fucking rake doing a number on your brain." Clint spits out, before a bitter grimace curls upon his lips and stays, "I know this is tough, big guy… And I’ve heard the same therapeutic speech before, so there’s some grade A irony going on here, but we got to come to terms that it wasn’t our fault.." He wants to compare the situations, comment on Loki and Mesmero respectively, but both those names would only trigger further grieve, grieve Clint isn’t sure he could handle adequately.

 

Thor sighs, glancing down with blond hair framing the structure of his strong jaw, “When will the good Captain wake, you reckon?”

 

Someone else pipes up at the question, Bruce peeping from the doorway and shyly pushing up his glasses, “Soon, realistically speaking… He’s been given a considerable dose given his injuries -don’t look so sullen, Thor, it was beyond you- but taken in account the serum’s ability to process the narcotics in his bloodstream, I’d say a good twenty minutes.”

 

Clint lightly shakes his head, hauls a hand through his short hair and mutters, “Great. I hate hospitals, ever since that one time in Uzbekistan…” His shoulders instinctively twitch, “Man, that was some crazy shit. How are Stark and Natasha holdin’ up?”

 

Thor perks up, “Have they reached a conclusion in their dispute with the owner of this hospital?” He absentmindedly drums his fingers upon the novel, his left knee bouncing up in down in up pent energy and frustration.

 

Bruce chuckles nervously, “Tony tried to bribe the poor man at one point. They aren’t very keen on letting Steve pack his things and walk out of here when he’s back to consciousness, especially when you recall in which state he was brought in…” He throws a sympathizing look in Thor’s direction, “But they aren’t aware of his accelerated healing nor his willpower. Natasha pointed this out whenever the head doctor started giving medical arguments. I left at the point Tony started complaining about their coffeemaker. _And their lack of hazelnut syrup?_ " He trails off uncertainly.

 

Rolling his eyes, Clint stalks over to their residential scientist and grabs him by the arm, “We’re going to get the marching band, Banner. Time for Fury to up the ante. I don’t know what it is exactly but people get nervous from a guy with an eye patch.” He turns to Thor momentarily, taking on a more serious attitude and says with a grain of kindness, “Think about what I said.”

 

Nodding in response, he looks down at the cover of ‘Jungle Book’, a drawing of a young boy curiously peeping from behind a fern bush at a girl by the stream, and decides on recommencing his reading, quite convinced this would further Steve’s return to complete consciousness. It’s been thirteen hours since Thor had personally taken his team leader’s bloody, broken body to the section of the hospital Midgardians call the ‘Intensive Care’ and practically demanded in a doleful, yet firm and authoritative voice to amend the damage he, himself, had inflicted upon the good Captain. He’s had surgery to reset three bones in his right arm, had to get stitches for his torn mouth and had to be bandaged for various bruises trailing from his forehead to down his calves. Doctors in a sterile environment and chalky coats informed him about a collection of medical conditions he couldn’t translate, bleeding himself from the few lucky, desperate punches Steve had landed. Tony had come first, looking ruffled and rattled, but somewhat satisfied Thor had regained his wits after being mind controlled for a good three nerve-wrecking hours by a mutant named Mesmero. Exhaustion soon washed over the two of them while Steve was undergoing multiple tests and received excessive doses of narcotics to subdue him completely. When Thor woke up, sore from both the battle and sleeping on a petite plastic chair, the others had arrived to inform him of the aftermath.

 

"What of the hunting?" He reads aloud, the plush of his index finger trailing the words systematically as he goes on, "Hunter bold? Brother, the watch was long and cold." His voice overcasts the periodic, steady beeping of the heart monitor.

 

Steve jerks in his induced slumber, a shallow uncontrolled twitch of his thumb and forefinger and this prompts his friend to continue in fervor, albeit with a lump clotting his throat. “What of the- What of the quarry ye went to kill?”

 

He gets two pages into the chapter before a hoarse, low calling of his name tugs his attention far away from the imaginary world and leads him back to the present here and now. His eyes turn to a squirming Steve, harmfully trying to position himself upright. Torn between euphoric laughter and instinctive fussing, the tall blond bolts from his seat and barrels towards his Captain’s side, unconsciously grasping the others’ hand between his own two. He peers into glossy, watery eyes, swollen and crude purple flesh drawing the attention away from the blue irises, and allows himself to exhale a relieved sigh.

 

“ _Thor_ …” He struggles to continue, sounding weary to his very bones, “Wa- Ter…” Being pushed down into the large fluffy cushion, Steve tries to motion towards his throat, but fails due to Thor clamping one hand and the other being stitched to tubes.

 

He scrambles over to the nightstand where a small cup and a glass bottle of water were left for himself earlier today, pours until the tiny cup is filled to the brim and rushes back to his friend. Helping Steve in a position in between sitting upright and lying down, Thor guides the cup to the Captain’s lips and forces him to take small gulps. He’s staring intently at the battered soldier on the bed and tries to gauge his reactions, wondering whether he would be scolded for his recklessness, something he vowed he would try to avoid, or whether he would be handled delicately as the others, save for Hawkeye, had tip toed around him.

 

Steve, licking his dry and chapped lips, settles down again and stares up at his teammate. “Good to have you back, Thor.” He says this in a tone Thor has come to appreciate, genuine with a touch of softness.

 

"I want to apologize, Steven. It was hardly my…" His hands seek out Steve’s again, hold on tight, "My intention to put you in harm’s way."

 

His response is a weak nod and an attempt at a smile, but the stitches make the gesture obscene and utterly painful. “ _Don’t worry ‘bout it_ , wasn’t your fault, buddy.” He takes a deep breath, although the simple necessity of breathing results in a wince, Thor involuntarily makes a choked sound and rubs down on Steve’s knuckles. “Glad you didn’t have your hammer on you, though…” His chuckle is short-lived, broken through by hacking.

 

Shaking his head, Thor speaks up again, “She sensed I was not in my right mind and refused to cooperate with me. However, that does not mean my punches or kicks were any less vile.. I am so tremendously sorry, Steven. For not listening to your directions and throwing myself in the fray.”

 

Beckoning him to come closer, the soldier offers another saddening smile and slowly pushes his forehead against Thor’s, knowing physical contact adds to the authenticity of his statement to come. “Hey, now. It’s okay, it’s okay. You didn’t hurt any civilians. And it’s not like the others don’t ignore my orders too. I can handle this, I can handle you.” His voice dwindles near the end of the sentence and soon asks for more water.

 

On the Captain’s request, he also drags his chair closer to the hospital bed and continues reading the hospital’s copy of Jungle Book, brought to him by Clint who had wandered through the pediatric department and coincidentally found it. He eventually loses himself to the emotional maelstrom and stress-induced fatigue, drops the novel onto his lap and slumps forward in his seat, wavy blond hair framing his strong jaw and tickling the skin underneath his chin. Steve tries to smile at the unusual display, fails due to the bloody wires through his sore and sensitive flesh and tilts back his head in defeat. His attention gets drawn to the wide-open door at his right by a loud cough. Steve stares straight at an extremely smug-looking Tony Stark, despite the pallor of his cheeks and the bags underneath his expressive eyes, behind an old-fashioned wheelchair with a strange bottle on the seat.

 

"I swear Point Break’s facial muscles should only be used for laughing,  _Spangles_. It was downright stressful to watch him break down after you went into surgery.” He says in greeting, patting the handles of the wheelchair lightly.

 

Groaning as he tries to move around on the small and hard mattress, the soldier manages to position himself into something close to comfortable and responds, “Thor has been through so much lately, and this is just another breaking point.. I’m fine, bruised and tired, but fine. He doesn’t have to blame himself and I’ll prove it to him.” He drapes his arm, hooked to IV’s, over his bandaged abdomen and exhales carefully.

 

Tony nods, “Good to see you back to consciousness, sleeping beauty.” He points to the wheelchair and his grin stretches, “Got your carriage ready.”

 

“ _Oh,_  Tony..” Steve mumbles, rolling his eyes, “It’s not even an electrical one.” His bright blue eyes laugh when his mouth can’t, “I’m kind of disappointed.”

 

Thor stirs, his head lolling to the right and his chin falling flat downwards against his collarbone. His nose scrunches and Tony can’t resist a tiny snicker to fall from between his open lips at the view. He turns back to his team leader and makes a ‘ _what are you going to do?_ ' gesture with his hands, “Can't have you crashing against a wall, Cap. Just got you back.”

 

He snorts, but soon takes on a more serious attitude, solemn Tony would call it despite the purple blotches obscuring his expressions. Steve changes the topic towards the incident which caused him to land here, “What happened after I blacked out, Stark?” He casts a glance at the bottle on the seat of the wheelchair and raises an eyebrow, despite the short pang of pain. “And what is that?” He doesn’t bother motioning to the bottle, keeping his leaden arms still.

 

"Hazelnut syrup. Oh, don’t gimme that look, Steve, I asked politely, even said pretty please. Now, let me see… After Thor got a taste of hypno-soup and decided to,  _uhum_ , tango with you, Hulk spazzed out against the wayward rebelling mutant children, I was in charge - _traumatizing experience, mind you_ \- and tried to put priority to the crowd. Clint and I coordinated the evacuation and Natasha all but crushed Mesmero’s neck with her thighs. Once Thor snapped back to attention, he summoned his toy, hauled you over his shoulder and flew to the closest hospital.” He counts the events off on his fingers, trying to look unaffected despite the slight tremor snaking over his skin whenever he swallows.

 

Steve’s gaze on the billionaire softens considerably and he murmurs, “You did great, Tony. Thank you.”

 

Shrugging his shoulders, Tony wheels the ‘carriage’ inside, parks the chair in the corner of the one-person room and walks over to the hospital bed, pouring himself a plastic cup of water after offering one to Steve. “Yeah, well, I didn’t expect the first time flying without the arc reactor to be such a rollercoaster. Who needs Disney,  _right?_ " He jokes, finishes the water in one go and crumples the cheap plastic between his fingers.

 

Almost bolting into an upright position, the soldier stares incredulously at the billionaire and stammers, “First time without… Stark! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!”

 

Pushing the startled Captain down with a firm hand on the chest, mindful of the raw injuries, the infuriating man chuckles and replies smoothly, “Relax, Spangles. Just testing your reflexes.”

 

Wheezing at the overpowering ache in his abdominal muscles, Steve regulates his breathing pattern and outright scowls at his teammate. Thor blinks slowly as he wakes up due to the shouting and mutters intelligibly, before his vision completely adjusts to the whiteness of the room and the sunlight, streaming through the large windows behind him. He suppresses a yawn and squares his shoulders, staring at his friends quarreling in front of him. Tony offers a relieved, almost fond laugh when Steve chews him out for being unendurable and pats the Captain gently on the upper-arm.

 

"Ah, great. You’re all here. Kind of worried Stark was harassing the nurses. Again. This isn’t Grey’s Anatomy, y’know." Clint jokes as he walks into the room, followed shortly by a flustered-looking Bruce and a calm but white-faced Natasha. Steve can’t even begin to guess how long they’ve been up and about, worried about him. He shoots an encouraging look at his team, letting his gaze linger longer on Thor.

 

Tony smirks, “I was merely bringing the  _blatant outdated-ness_  of their equipment to their attention. And this is supposed to be a reputable institution.” He flicks his hand to emphasize his statement.

 

"Their coffee machine is not part of the regular medical equipment, Stark." Natasha merely replies, before smiling briefly at the hospitalized Captain, "I have your release forms. Director Fury handled the meeting accordingly."

 

Bruce adjust his glasses and mutters under his breath, “If accordingly means calling everyone a ‘motherfucker’ at least two times, than yes, it has been handled accordingly.”

 

"Now, now, Banner." Clint begins, "Diplomacy is an art which our dear director mastered most skillfully." He nudges the doctor with his shoulder, grinning widely.

 

Thor edges closer to Steve, smiling contently to see him conversing with the redheaded spy, and grabs his hand again, twining his warm fingers with the Captain’s cool ones. His chest feels lighter and he feels he can breathe normally again, after two months of uproar and heartache. He doesn’t notice the curious look Natasha, perceptive as always, throws him nor how her sharp features smooth over in realization, corners of her mouth twitching upwards.

 

"Guys.." Steve rasps, clutching his friend’s hand automatically, "I hate to interrupt, but can we please get something to eat now?" His stomach rumbles and as his cheeks flush, the other Avengers break down laughing, grateful to have survived another distressing event.

 

Tony motions to the wheelchair again and cackles, “Your carriage, Capsicle. Without all the fancy mechanics, unfortunately,” His mouth curls into a wicked smile, “But still  _worthy_ to carry your All-American body.”

 

To nobody’s surprise, Thor volunteers to place Steve into the wheelchair, and he does so painstakingly precautious, so absolutely afraid to harm the Captain again, and pushes him through the narrow hallway, past the receptionist desk and in front of one of Tony’s less garish cars, half-carries him into the passenger’s seat and, on Steve’s orders, fixes the seatbelt. They travel to the reconstructed and almost completely refurnished Stark Tower in separate cars, with Thor slumped on the backseat of a black, nondescript S.H.I.E.L.D. van with Clint at the wheel and Natasha flipping disinterestedly through a medical brochure published by the American Ministry of Health. His head snaps up when the spy starts to talk at him, although she’s not even regarding him in the rearview mirror.

 

"So, Thor, how long have you been harboring an attraction to our team leader?" Her voice is  _composed_ , posture straight and sophisticated, staring at a lists of symptoms for a rare disease.

 

Clint raises an eyebrow at the inquiry but his eyes remain focused on traffic in front of him. He flicks the flasher as he takes a turn left and turns the light off again.

 

His hands curve over Mjölnir instinctively and he exhales deeply, armor chinking as his chest sags. “Do not assume I am merely using the Captain as a tool to overcome the unfortunate ending of my relationship with Jane Foster.” His voice is unsteady, but the expression he wears should erase any doubts.

 

"I wasn’t." Natasha replies smoothly, turning the page in her brochure. "Since the Chitauri invasion, then?"

 

He shouldn’t be impressed by the spy’s nonchalant attitude nor her keen sense of observation, but confirms her guess, “Yes, I’ve found the Captain most admirable, most noble and…” Thor stares at the intricate patterns carved into his hammer and rubs the cool material in distraction, trailing off.

 

Clint finishes his sentence for him, “We all know Steve has a slammin’ body, big guy. You can say it.” Natasha rolls her eyes at the remark and closes the brochure before sticking it in the glove compartment.

 

His eyebrows furrow together, “His form is appeasing to the eyes, but there is much more than esthetics.”

 

“ _God_ , Thor, why don’t you do commercials, seriously?” Clint responds, tapping the steering wheel along the muffled music from the radio.

 

This time, Natasha does look at him from the rearview mirror and asks, “Are you going to ask him out? He might say yes, you know.”

 

Suddenly weary again, the tall blond slumps in the comfortable cushions of the car seat and responds in a low voice, “I do believe now would be a most unfortunate time to consider courtship.”

 

They let the conversation die after that answer, driving in complacent, companionable silence to Stark Tower. Yellow taxis pass them by as Clint parks the van in front of the main entrance, turns off the radio and throws his seatbelt to the side of his seat. Natasha gets out first, shielding her drowsy eyes from the warm afternoon sunlight, and slams the door shut, satisfied to hear the faint ‘click’ of the door locking. Thor shuffles through the automatic glass doors, anxious and worn out and aching for a warm shower and a soft bed. He hangs Mjölnir on a futuristic-looking clothing pin, sleek and shiny, in the main common room on the fifteenth floor. “Hey-a, buddy.” Steve greets, hobbling towards the couch with a mug of warm Earl Grey in his hands. “Bruce made tea, if you want some… Tony’s ordering pizza.. I think.” He glances around the room, obviously looking for Clint and Natasha. “Where are the others?”

 

Thor plops down, back bouncing against the rest, “They wanted a change of clothing.. You should sit down, Steven, your body is still recuperating from..” He scrapes his throat, diverts his gaze and curves his palms over his kneecaps, “ _My blows_.” His conclusion is soft-spoken, subdued.

 

Carefully sitting next to his friend, the soldier holds his bandaged abdomen precariously with one hand and turns to the tall blond, scrutinizing him, “Your forced hands, you should teach me a few of those moves sometime.” He comments, before taking a tiny sip from the hot beverage and placing the ridiculously colored mug onto the glass coffee table.

 

Thor shakes his head, “You shouldn’t be thinking of battle any time soon, my friend.” He leans against the soldier, shoulder to shoulder.

 

Gently bumping his head against the blonds’ temple, Steve hums in agreement, “You’re on when I get better, though.”

 

It’s a bold move, but Thor places his right hand on Steve’s thigh, kneading the loose fabric of the soldier’s sweatpants and gently keeping their heads close, touching barely. “I do not wish to fight you for a long time again, Steven.” He’s acutely aware of the other’s every movement, the soft breathing, the body heat creeping through the thin material of his trousers, the light, almost invisible freckles on the bridge of his nose. His fingers curl into the fabric tighter, automatically.

 

"That’s.. Understandable." He whispers, moving his own palm to cover the back of Thor’s hand, "I’ll never blame you,  _y’know_ _that_ ,  **right**?”

 

Tony, almost barging into the common room from the hall, skids to a halt in the doorway and slams his hand in front of his mouth to stop the words he was about to utter from escaping. His eyes rest on the two blonds, almost cuddling on his couch, and takes a few steps backwards, gesturing wildly to Bruce to come enjoy the spectacle. Rolling his eyes at the enthusiastic billionaire, he merely drags him away from the doorway by the sleeve of his designer vest, complaining about a flagrant disrespect of privacy.

 

Thor nods, slowly, “That should not imply I cannot blame myself..” He swallows a lump down his throat, “I could have caused irreparable damage, Captain. When I came to my senses and I saw what state you were in.. I was so terrified for you. I have…” He can’t continue his sentence, refuses to revisit the raw memories wandering in his mind, his proud mother and his brave brother dying, Jane smiling ruefully when she says their relationship wasn’t what she wanted after all, his departure from Asgard. He feels bile climbing up his esophagus, tasting  _vile and acidic_.

 

"Lost so much?" Steve, black-eyed and worse for wear, threads their fingers together and eases the hold Thor has on his own sweatpants. "You won’t lose me, the team, you still have doctor Foster as a friend, Thor. I promised you.." His mouth runs dry again and he reaches for his tea again, wincing at the endeavor.

 

Smiling apologetically, the blond takes the mug for him and once more, guides the ceramic to his friend’s red and ugly-looking lips.

 

"Thanks," Steve says and holds his hand again when Thor’s placed the beverage back onto the expensive table. "Seems like you got me too, huh?" His laugh is broken apart by a painful groan.

 

He gently pulls his friend into an one-armed embrace, shielding him against his chest, “I’ve got you indeed, Steven. You should rest, sustenance will await you when you wake.” He indulges himself and pushes the button of his nose against the back of the soldier’s head. “ _And so will **I**_.”


End file.
